


I can feel you

by corinnemaree



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV) Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corinnemaree/pseuds/corinnemaree
Summary: Claire finds herself psychically linked with five other people, a bond of emotions and a range of abilities the others might not possess. Her life is getting more complicated, especially when she might be falling for someone inside her cluster.





	I can feel you

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, this is a sense8 au cause i'm bitter and sad. anyway, PLEASE ENJOY! IT’S BEEN A WHILE AND I WANT YOU ALL TO ENJOY THIS AU AS MUCH AS I DID!

Do you know when you feel someone's hand on your shoulder when it isn't there? Or like someone is right beside you when you're all alone? That's what it was like always for Claire. Her entire life was always feeling like she needed to look over her shoulder, that even in her worst hours, she could have someone there to make her feel safe. One of Claire’s happiest moments she spent with a familiar presence at her side - that she wasn't feeling joy alone. It was strange and distant, but she knew that it was more than just a strong happiness. It had to be.

Yet there was a bitter aftertaste of that day, forever out of reach, yet so delightfully present. It was all her. Claire knew that for sure. She knew she couldn’t blame it on the weird sensations, but god did she want to. Everything just got too damn complicated. At twenty-eight, she wasn’t exactly thinking her life would be more complicated, but god it got that way so fast. And with everything her inner self was just muddling her life up. 

It wasn’t until late June that everything started to fuck up completely. It was 6pm when she got the first headache - a migraine that wouldn’t ease. No matter how much she tried to prevent it from occurring, it pressed up against her temples and bombarded her mind. She took herself to bed, curling up in the oversized blankets, just trying to calm her mind. It wasn't until 2am that she was woken up. It was nothing in particular, just no longer able to sleep.

At the foot of her bed stood a man, worn out in clothes that draped over his body - as though he had grown too thin for them. He was an older man than Claire, dark skin and tired eyes. He was visibly shaken, like he knew something was coming - something inventtable. “It’s going to be alright. Find them,” he breathed, before taking a gun into his mouth and pulling the trigger. Claire shot up further, screaming wildly at the sight, but he was gone the moment the shot echoed in her ears. Claire cried and cried, unable to contain the terror that was clouding her chest.  

Then, something else happened, something unlike she’d ever felt before. It felt universal - an extraordinary feeling of otherness, that she wasn’t herself but she was other people at once. Once, she sat up in her bed, shaking in fear, the next, she stood in an abandoned church around a mattress that was becoming stained with blood. Simon. His name was Simon. How did she know that so suddenly? How could she possibly know that? As Claire looked around, there were five other people standing - looking as confused as she did. 

There were two women, one rather short and dark skin, like caramel - the other was average height with fair skin and dark brown hair framing her face; both women seemed to be in formal working clothes, pinned in pencil skirts and suits. The other three were men - two were half changed, one getting into their clothes for work, the other getting out of them. And the last man, donned in an American police uniform, was staring at Claire, his brow furrowed before they all looked down, Simon rising from his deathbed - head still dripping with blood. One of the other women screamed and everyone jumped. 

Just like that, Claire was holding her mouth shut on her bed again, crying harder. She was shaking and suddenly felt warm hands grip her shoulders. The lamp on her bedside was turned on and she was shocked when she saw her room bare and Patrick looking at her with frightened eyes. 

“Claire! What’s wrong?” he asked, his thumb running over her shoulder.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Claire mumbled, her hands running over her face.

The headaches from then on only managed to get worse. Claire took time off of work, barely managing to hold a conversation on the phone, let alone work an entire day at Hammond Industries. As she managed to get up and do things for herself, she thought she finally got that weird moment from the night before. That was until she heard gunfire. She thought it may have been on the street, but before she knew it, she saw her apartment in a blaze of bullets. 

Ducking down, she was pinned behind a brick wall, a man donned in a police uniform, his dark skin drenched in sweat. Barry adjusted his vest, trying to relax as the bullets were still being hailed on them. Barry. His name was Barry. Claire looked around, a torn apart warehouse and in her hands she held something heavy and metal. A gun. She didn't drop it like she expected, but rather, gripped it tighter. Claire wasn’t exactly prepared for this, in her silk pajama shorts and bralette.

“Owen, what do we do?” Barry shouted over the gunfire. Claire turned to him, Barry’s eyes drilling into her with questions. He was talking to her; but he called her Owen? “Owen!” he repeated. Then, it took Claire a moment to shake off the moment. She was back in her apartment before she found herself back in the warehouse, standing in an open doorway.

“What?” Owen replied, glancing around. He stopped when he saw Claire, tilting his head at her. He remembered her, but he was curious as to why she was there. She could feel what he was feeling, hear what he was thinking. She was part of him, and apart from him. 

“Owen, are you out of your fucking mind?” Barry shouted. 

“I….I…” he stuttered, unable to stop staring. 

“I’m calling for backup, stay here,” Barry said, getting up and chasing his way out of the warehouse. 

As the gunfire became chaotic and closer, Claire collapsed down by Owen’s side. He looked around the corner briefly as the bullets stopped momentarily. He came back around, shaking his head, knowing it was a hopeless venture. There was a moment of doubt as footsteps approached. Claire leaned over to owen. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Do something!” she pestered in a hushed voice, but Owen didn’t move, just preparing his gun; which would be useless against a thug’s weapon. “Fuck.” Claire huffed, bounding her hands. 

She stretched her legs out across the floor, swinging her hip around as the thug came around the corner. Kicking out his feet, Claire managed to get on her knees, bound her fist and punch into the attacker’s jaw with enough force to shock him. She flipped him on his stomach, clicking at Owen for her cuffs. He gave them willingly, Claire quickly cuffing the guy on the ground. Snatching the gun from Owen’s hand, Claire aimed it for corner, a perfect shot right to the -

“No kill shots,” Owen whispered in her ear, a calm voice like he was talking someone down. She rolled her eyes, repositioned her gun and fired. The man rounded the corner. Shot to the shoulder. The guy was on the floor and unable to handle any firearms. Owen went over, pinning the other guy to the floor, just as Barry arrived to handle cuffing the other guy, backup taking out the dazed man. It was now only Owen and Claire, standing in a dusty warehouse that was littered with bullet holes and shell casings. 

Owen placed his hands on his belt, a common stance for most cops, just avoiding his holsters on either side of his hip. “How did you know to do that?” he asked and Claire shrugged, her chest growing tight in fear. “I know you,” he said, sighing and smiling in surprise. 

“It’s you,” Claire replied, just as the sound of a metal door clattered shut outside the warehouse, shocking both Claire and Owen. She was back in her apartment, standing in the spot she last remembered being. “What the fuck is happening?” Claire said, shaking her head. The headache was gone now, but god was her head sore from all of this.

The memory of his question lingered in her mind; how did you know how to do that? Claire let her fingers run over the brutal scars on her ribcage, the same that her sister had on the opposite side. Just the thought of them made the old wounds ache. Her mind flicked to that day, the blood that stained her, the fire that raged in their home and her sister clamoring for her hand when Claire couldn’t hear anything. Claire’s lip wobbled as she tried to contain herself, bringing her knees to her chest.

The next morning, Claire stood by the kitchen bench, watching as Patrick became ever more frustrated. He stormed from one place to another, gathering things into his work bag. “You gonna go to work  _ at all _ this week?” he questioned spitefully. Claire crossed her arms.

“Since when do I have to deal with your shitty attitude?” she barked and Patrick stopped. 

“Since a headache seems to last for fucking days for no reason.” He continued to pack his things. 

“It’s killing me, Patrick,” she groaned and he scoffed at her words. “Don’t scoff at me,” she spat at him. She walked to him, taking his arm and stopping his impatient walking around. “What’s the matter?” she asked softly. 

“You’ve been acting like a complete psycho these last couple of days. Is something wrong with us, is that what it’s really about?” 

“No! Of course not,” Claire swallowed. There was a lie hidden in her words. “I’ve just been feeling really crappy and this migraine is not helping with my own attitude. Please, just calm down. I don’t want to fight,” she explained and Patrick, with his kind eyes and curly brown hair looked up to her with sympathy. 

“I think I might go stay at my brother’s tonight. Get out of your hair,” he said, picking up his bag.

“Pat,” Claire tried, but he continued on. “Hey, come on,” she said, only to have the front door of their apartment slammed behind him. Claire rolled her eyes and put herself in front of the TV. And that’s where her whole day was wasted, an agonising headache and watching TV, constantly aware of all the work she needed to do the moment she got back to work. 

As the night came in, and drinking became appropriate, Claire had a glass of wine with her dinner. She thought she was alone when she put on her next movie, but soon, in front of her TV walked the woman from the other night, her skin the mixture of chocolate and caramel. She seemed more alarmed than Claire, but it wasn’t something Claire didn’t expect at this point - her life was already crazy, bring on the craziest shit ever, universe! Claire Dearing was ready for it. 

“Hello?” they greeted. Claire rolled her eyes, throwing her head back. 

“I’m not ready for another one of you. So either sit down and drink with me or leave me alone, thanks,” she said, rubbing at her forehead. Before she realised it, the woman was sitting down beside her underneath the covers, a glass of wine in her hand. Claire chuckled. 

“Stristi,” she introduced. 

“Claire.” 

“What are you watching?” Stristi asked. 

“My Fair Lady.” 

“Isn’t that a really popular film?” Claire nodded. The film was only a little way’s though, Audrey Hepburn only managing to get through one of her songs so far. 

“Yeah. The singing is a bit shit if you ask me,” she smiled, looking over to Stristi who laughed just a little at Claire. 

“I’d have to agree with you on that one,” she chuckled, taking a sip of wine. She set the glass down before rubbing at Claire’s shoulder. “He’s going to come back,” she whispered. 

“I know,” Claire replied, seeing that Stristi had disappeared once more, staying no more than five minutes. It was strange that Stristi could say the right words, the words to put Claire at ease for a moment in time. But the words she left out were the ones more telling. 

 

***** 

 

Owen woke up on his day off, the constant pestering and bombardment of a fist to his front door. Owen got out of bed, putting on his boxers and a tank top that was only tied together by the knots at his waist. He rubbed at his eyes, peeking through the eyehole to see the short woman he regretted seeing every time. “Diana! I said I’ll get you rent tomorrow! Work has been fucking around with my paychecks!” he yelled through the door. She gave one final pound to the door.

“I want that rent as soon as you get it, dumbass,” she yelled back, huffing and taking off down the hall again. Owen ran a hand through his hair before shuffling off to the kitchen.

“Yeah yeah,” he commented to himself. He saw the clock on the oven and he groaned. It was only 6am, meaning he only got two hours of sleep. And a full nightshift to get through in the night. God, he wanted to die - because dying slowly on his shift would be true torture. He laid his head on his fridge, finding the OJ and taking it from the cool interior. If he was going to be awake, he might as well try and enjoy his morning. Turning around, he saw the red headed woman that had been visiting him nearly everyday, sitting up on his kitchen island bench. She was wearing purple silk pajamas, a similar pair to what she had worn in the warehouse. 

“Hello again,” she said, her eyes wide but not surprised. She took a sip from her mug. As Owen glanced around, he was in his own apartment, but also someone else. It was much brighter where she was - a bright and spacious apartment in a loud city. 

“Hey,” he smiled, turning back to her. 

“Who are you?” she asked. 

“I’m Owen,” he said just before taking a drink.

“Claire.” 

“Do you live here?” he asked, already knowing she couldn’t live in where he was; too many loud cars and shouting people for whatever time of the day it was. 

“Where even is here?” she replied. 

“Dallas.” 

“I’m never been to Texas,” she laughed, holding tight to her mug. “I’m in New York,” she glanced over her shoulder and Owen went to the window, looking out onto the city that beamed with sound and vibrant colours mixed with faded bricks of time. 

“The city that never sleeps,” he scoffed before looking back at her. Claire kicked her legs out on his bench, looking comfortable. Whenever Owen looked at her, his heart couldn’t seem to pick a rhythm, constantly changing whenever she smiled or moved closer to him. God, he knew she was beautiful, but there was something about her that made him feel like he had been floating off into nothingness, and suddenly, she grounded him. 

“Seems to be accurate enough,” he smiled. 

“What’s happening to us?” she asked. Before he could answer, she was gone, no trace she had been there at all - making his heart sink and job diminish to nothing. 

“I wish I knew,” he sighed, leaving the OJ on the bench and going back to his room. He wanted some fucking sleep. He couldn’t deal with a nightshift and all of this - whatever it was - without it. 

When the afternoon was creeping in, a short nap in the middle of the day, there was a persistence echo that went through the apartment. It was an abnormal sound for his apartment; a baby crying. Owen walked around his bedroom door to see a dark room with a dark haired woman standing over a crib. She was tired, hair in a mess; she hadn’t slept much before the baby started to cry.

“I remember you,” Owen whispered, moving closer to the crib. She turned, fear gripping her before he put his hands up, showing that he meant no harm. She relaxed, their minds both at ease.

“When Simon died,” she said in stunted English. Russian. She was Russian. 

“I’m Owen,” he greeted, moving over to the crib, seeing the beautiful baby that was far too exhausted for its own good. 

“Mira,” she replied.

“Is everything okay, Mira?” he asked in a whisper. He looked towards Mira, gesturing down to the baby and she nodded. He let his finger touch against the baby’s belly, tickling it so that its hands and feet moved his hand away. He chuckled. It was odd, the sensation was there, but it was distant, a memory of a feeling but also so very real. So present and so absent all wrapped in one. 

“It’s just the baby. She’s scared of thunder,” Mira explained, the crackling of thunder in the distance was still rumbling where they were. 

“I always wanted to have a kid of my own,” he told Mira, though he expected she knew. 

“Soon. I can feel it,” she smiled. As the baby continued to cry, Mira picked her up, rocking her back and forth in her arms. 

“Do you get what’s happening to all of us?” he asked. She shrugged. 

“I met with Trip the other day. The skinny blonde boy from England. He thinks it might have something to do with our genetics,” she said and Owen crossed his arms, listening to her - trusting her. “he’s a science guy, majored in biology or something. He had another encounter with a man….uh...Ricky? Anyway, they talked and made sure the other was actually real. Turns out we all are, scattered all over the place. We’re still working out why this is happening,” she spoke just before the baby started to wail. “Gah! Baba, please,” Mira exclaimed. Owen bent slightly, the idea coming to him out of Mira’s sheer desperation, the thought floating around her head was at the forefront of his. 

_ “Don't cry, don't raise your eye, It's only teenage wasteland,”  _ he started to sing, waiting for the baby’s name. Mira smiled as the baby seemed to calm.

“Rita,” she whispered. 

_ “Rita take my hand, we’ll travel south cross land. Put out the fire and don’t look past my shoulder,”  _ Owen finished singing, humming the tune of the song as Rita started to calm. 

“American songs. I must remember that,” Mira chuckled slightly, humming the rest of the song to keep Rita calm. 

“Goodnight, little Rita,” Owen whispered, the image of them disappearing in just a moment. He sighed, going to his wardrobe and finding his clean uniform. 

 

*****

 

Claire was putting her dinner in the microwave, the night coming in and she had yet another day on her own. Her headaches had subsided, though she did feel a low pressure hum at the back of her head, but it was easily ignored. Finishing up her dinner, she put her dishes away after cleaning them, when she was suddenly bitten - hard - on the nipple.

“Shit!” Claire cursed, inspected her breast.

“Sorry,” a voice said behind her in broken english. A dark haired, but fair, woman walked to Claire’s kitchen bench with a baby against her chest and pulling her shirt back in order. “Baby sometimes likes to latch too hard,” Mira explained. Her name. Then memories of different things filtered into Claire’s mind - some of Mira’s past, some of her recent memories with Trip, Stristi, and Owen. It was overwhelming and normal all in one; too much information shared between two people that made it all bearable. 

“You okay, though?” she asked. 

Mira nodded, trying to adjust baby Rita in her arms. Claire was going to bite her lip when she shook off the feeling. “I’ve heard if you put your knuckle at the corner of their mouth while they breastfeed, it stops them from biting down,” she explained and Mira’s brow furrowed. “My sister had two kids and made me look it up once,” Claire smiled. 

“Thank you,” Mira sighed, as though the relief of the words were going to save her life. Claire almost went to touch the baby, just to see how gorgeous a little human being could be when Mira looked up in surprise. “Someone is here,” she whispered and disappeared. Claire looked over her shoulder, fear gripping her. Then, she realised it was only Patrick.

“Babe, are you okay?” he asked, setting his bag down. Claire rested her hand on her forehead.

“I’m fine. Just...feeling off,” she explained. Patrick came up to Claire, kissing her forehead, his hands resting on her shoulders. 

“Maybe you need to go to the hospital,” he suggested. 

“Don’t,” a woman said quickly, appearing from behind Patrick. She kept a finger pressed to her lip before disappearing. She didn’t fade out or disappear in a cloud of smoke - one moment she was there, the next, she wasn’t. Claire had never seen her before, but something told her that she had, maybe just out of the corner of her eye on a different occasion.

“Maybe,” Claire swallowed. She shrugged Patrick’s hands off her shoulders and held herself tightly. “I feel better than yesterday, so I think I’ll be fine,” she shrugged, just as she saw the black haired woman walk into the bathroom. “I’m going to go take a bath. It’s good to have you home,” Claire said, kissing Patrick’s cheek and going off to the bathroom. 

The woman sat at the edge of the tub, reading from the shampoo bottle out of boredom. “Who are you?” Claire asked in a whisper, turning on the water for the bath. 

“I’m Zara,” she said confidently, her voice loud compared to Claire’s hushed words. 

“Keep your voice down,” she whispered. 

“He won’t hear me. I’m in your head,” Zara gave an exaggerated whisper back. As Claire’s brow crinkled, Zara crossed her arms. “I’m not an illness, I’m a real person. But you know that already.” Zara seemed wiser than Claire, but something about her was bothering Claire. She didn’t feel the same way that Owen or Mira felt; Zara made everything feel distant, constantly unable to see what she was feeling or thinking. She was confident and bold in her interaction, knowing more about all of this than Claire ever could. 

“What is happening?” Claire asked, putting in her bath soaps and fragrances. 

“You’re a sensate. But sweetheart, you’re in a world of trouble. Keep the voices in your head to yourself, otherwise, you’re fucked,” she warned Claire. Zara glanced over her shoulder, bringing Claire with her. Zara was looking around a bend of a building, sirens echoing close by. They were coming for Zara. “I gotta go. They’re getting close. Be safe. And stay away from anyone called Vic Hoskins,” Zara said back in Claire’s bathroom. 

“Why?” Claire questioned. Zara bent down to Claire, holding onto her hands tightly, fear in her eyes. But it wasn’t fear for those sirens approaching her; it was for Claire.

“He will kill you the moment he finds you. Do not look him in the eye,” she warned, and without warning she was gone. Claire sighed, the idea that Claire might someday be like Zara - on the run - was a frightening prospect. Claire got in her bath, holding herself closer and trying not to overwhelm herself with the idea of being hunted. But she could already feel, from the moment Simon died, she was now pray in someone else’s game of cat and mouse. 


End file.
